Forever the good son
by Lady Abernathy Wordsmith
Summary: Alfred didn't have a single good memory of his mother, his mother who abused him because he was A Son of The White Devil, even though she adored her eldest who was just as much A Son of the Whiteman. His only good memory belonged to White Bear, To Canada.


Okay so forget any historical-screw ups, I'm not here to teach you. That's what schools for.

I do not own Hetalia.

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><p>Alfred didn't have a single good memory about his mother.<p>

His mother was an aboriginal, native, Indian…savage, as Arthur ones said. He couldn't clearly remember her name in its original language (due to the fact that there were damn-near fifty different languages to call her by, hundreds more dialects that he had ones' known by heart) but the name he called her by now was Mother America.

Mother America had been a tall woman with skin as dark as milk chocolate, a treat he discovered later in his life, her hair was waist-length, always tied back in a braid with a clip made with beads and deer hide where it began from her head, her eyes were a near venomous lilac.

She had Canada first, born from one of the first Nordic Vikings, the man was so kind to his mother and even falling in love with her. He'd pleaded with her, have her return to his home and be his wife. But she had a duty to her land and remained as the large canoe was sailing away, his father on it as he wove his arms in the air like a madman.

Oh how she told him of his father, how brave and handsome he was. His skin as pale as newly fallen snow, his eyes sparkled with interest as he tried to learn her way of trapping and hunting and beading, how they laughed when he tried to fish with a spear and net, only to fall into the water and scare the salmon away, how in love they were…

But his father had to leave because his men were fighting too much with the Aboriginal's, causing them unneeded death. His Nordic Father had to leave, but, according to Mother America, had patted her stomach and whispered a word she still occasionally called him; 'Vinland'.

Canada was born with blonde-hair, inherited from his Nordic Father, and violet-eyes, from his northern Mother, his skin as pale and creamy as honey-drenched snow, just as pale as his Icelandic father.

Canada (back then known as White Bear, for his skin and preference of duties as the Bear would much rather gather then to hunt), and Mother America wandered on their own, with no definable tribe and they're multilingualism as a way to at the very least trick a traveling group, and a few of the more soft-hearted elders into sharing a big catch, that they were one of them, they lived as easy a life as one could back in those times.

Back then, both White Bear and Mother America were _magic_; they're lodgings could change shape to suit the tribe, A teepee when they were with the Plains tribes, a Wigwam when with the Swamp Tribes, and a Lodge when they were with the Farming Tribes.

Mother America could turn into a man, and when he visited a new people he would call himself a different name and perform all kinds of magic and tricks and tell stories of his life before he had his son, when the earth was new and how Frog, who had been far too proud because of his beautiful, long legs and far too lazy because he got to places much faster because he could walk so much farther, had gone into a bundle of dried meat to nap and when Eagle took that Bundle to deliver to him, but the bundle broke and all the meat fell, Frog falling with it. And when Frog landed in the water, his legs were all bunched up. He was so ashamed that he'd lost his long legs and begun to think himself ugly, he now only pokes his eyes through the water and runs at the first sign of someone seeing him.

These stories brought legends of Wesakechak and Nanaboosho, all the same person who was really Canada's mother.

Along with turning into a man, Mother America could also speak the language of the animals, turn into animals, make any plant grow in any place (even in snow and stone), and a lot more.

White Bear could do some magic himself as well, he could become _invisible_ when he desired so, and he could speak to the animals very well, but the Bears were the ones that he could understand best.

The first time he'd ever seen a grown White man was when a giant kayak landed on the shores where he was searching for oysters. He abandoned the shell he was shucking for the meat, his pouch was partly filled with the meat and his curiosity of the vessel was too great to resist. He peeked over some rocks as a man in strange clothing, clothing that was puffy in weird places and had a long cape was accompanied by a small…not a child but some kind of human with hair a shade darker than a foxes fur. It was short and stout and had russet-brown hair with a curl bouncing on the side like how White Bear had a curl in front of his eyes.

The thing caught sight of him; he ducked as it wove its arm back and forth in what might've been a gesture of hello.

Peeking back out, he saw that the thing was walking closer as more of the white-men clambered onto the beaches, making too much noise as birds flew away, terrified.

White Bear jumped, heart racing as he turned and ran to the safety of the forest. The thing followed, its screech was high and squeaky as he clamored behind noisily, trying to follow the swift and silent White Bear.

Upon seeing him cornered by heavy under-brush and trees with Branches too high to climb, White Bear willed himself invisible as the thing caught up, speaking strange words as he searched for him.

White Bear reached for his knife at his side, moving to defend himself and stepping so that he was looking at the back of the thing as the invisibility was dispersed, -intentionally surprising the other. It spoke again, White Bear lunged experimentally, and it shut up quickly in fear of the knife and the boy that held it. More voices speaking the unknown tongue and more buffalo-crashing came, White Bear became scared and became invisible as the kayak-people came and got the little creature.

The blonde-native went back to the beach the following mornings, making sure that they weren't taking anything from Mother Earth without the proper sacrifices like Tabaco and the likes. They didn't take anything; they just walked around, and never out of sight of the water.

When they left, White Bear watched from the cliffs, that word on the side stuck in his head as he retraced the symbols in the dirt; S.S Matthew.

White Bear grew, gaining skills like fishing, skinning, cooking, even hunting (though he loathed the deed greatly, as he could hear them speak; so unprepared to be eaten by he and Mother). He was a silent child, never bothering another child to play as they would always alienate him and call him cruel names like Winter Mouse and Clay Face.

_But,_ White Bear would resolve as he returned to the lodge where his mother dwelled, _at least I have someone that truly loves me…_

Oh how he cried that day that the faceless white devil came to his wigwam as the tribe they were currently sharing meals with was burned, he could hear the White-Words being spoken as his mother cried, shrieking for help as her only son sat outside; invisible as more and more stormed as the pillaged and killed the men with their Thunder-Sticks that shot lightening and clouds. The man defiled her, took her not as his wife but consummated as if he had.

A few months later, another child was born, and he was named Cloud Child, Cloud Child always thought that it was meant that he was beautiful in his mothers' eyes, that he was useful in bringing rain.

But Mother America corrected him scorningly one day, he was named Cloud Child because clouds brought rain, and rain made the animal's hide, that clouds ruined what might've been a nice, sunny day for White Bear to go trapping, White Bear who resembled his beautiful Father so.

Now Mother America was a patient and loving woman, but still the memories of _its_ (not he or him; it) origin as it begun to speak and walk. She was slowly losing her mind and magic as the Native Woman were forced into marriage ceremonies by the white-men even though a lot of them already had children and husbands, as the Native Men were being killed and slaughtered just like the buffalo that were rapidly disappearing from the plains, as her people lost their rights, land and humanity, she lost everything that made her a country

She beat on Cloud Child as her White Bear was out fishing that afternoon, Cloud Child who had the blue eyes of his father. _**"Son of the White Devil!" **_ She screamed as she swung a deer-hide pouch half-full with uncooked meat at the wailing child, tears falling as she reared her arm back for another swing, the dull thudding of the animal-flesh on her youngest's body and his screeching cries and sobs.

"_**Mother!"**_ the woman stopped, the blonde whimpering, all-too ready for another beating as his elder brother who was inexplicably favored though he too was obviously a Son of the White Devil, returned from fishing.

She sat, hissing at her youngest to sit up right as she whipped her face clean from the tears. She busied herself with a needle and thread; her back to Cloud Child as White Bear came, bearing a net with two large fish caught.

A few nights later, Cloud Child was awoken by his Elder brother, who, by then, looked to be about twelve winter's old while he only looked five.

A hand on his mouth kept him from asking what he wanted, understanding, Cloud Child remained silent as he followed his brother outside. White Bear was dressed in his normal buck-skin trousers with a wrist-length shirt, the seams of it had cut fringed that swished when he moved. On the back was a design made by Mother America, a porcupines' quill in the center, he wore a pair of summer moccasins with the image of a flower growing on the top part of the foot.

Cloud Child followed his brother to the darkest parts of the forest, huffing as they finally stopped. Looking back and forth, White Bear climbed up a tree, whispering to his brother to stay there. After a while, White Bear threw down a small bundle wrapped in deer-hide and sinew to the forest-floor, following soon after.

White Bear opened up the bundle, inside was a white cloth with a red-ribbon threaded through a part of it, some pieces of dried meat, a turtles shell, and a white-man's container filled with what Cloud Child assumed to be water. _**"Undress."**_

Cloud Child did as told and was soon naked in front of his brother, who redressed him in the white cloth. _**"Wh-where did you get these?"**_ he asked, shuddering as he held himself, the cloth was much thinner and offered less protection then his hand-me-down skin-clothes.

"_**I stole them from the White-Camp."**_ Came the answer. _**"Brother, you are in danger here. Mother will not be satisfied with your bruises for much longer; you must run while you can."**_

"_**Wh-what! Where will I run brother! There is no place on Mother Earth for me to hide from Mother!" **_He didn't stop, knowing it sounded strange since both woman mentioned were one in the same.

White Bear held his little brothers shoulders, shaking him slightly as if to help what he asked sink in a little better. _**"I couldn't help when the Son of The White Man Attacked Mother, but I will help when Mother Attacks the Son of the White Man."**_ White Bear pointed east, where the pinks and oranges of the dawning sun arose. _**"The Travelers camp near the shore where the Sun arises from his sleep, go there and live."**_

"_**What if they don't accept me?"**_ asked the smaller one in worry.

"_**They will." **_Resolved the elder, turning to gather the cloth where the white-clothes had been wrapped in and retying it together, He gave it to Cloud Child and gave him one last hug. _**"Go towards the sun and walk the beach until you see the fires of the camp, I'll ask Brother Pidgin to make sure that none of the other animals mistake you for a meal, alright?" **_ Confused, tired and nearly in tears; Cloud Child nodded as he held the bundle in his small arms, he turned and ran as far and fast as he could, leaving behind White Bear to their fading Mother.

White Bear watched as long as he could, turning back to the Teepee after Cloud Child disappeared in a clutch of trees.

Soon after he set his brother off, White Bear became lonely. His mother was despondent, silenced now that her youngest son was gone; White Bear began to fear for himself and was out for as long as possible. On one of these extended hunting trips, he found a misplaced…white bear in the forest. Speaking to the bear, he found out that that he was meant to forever be a cub because he was the spirit of the Land. The Young-Warrior nodded, telling that he was the same, aging only when the land did and growing younger when there were severe, unneeded death.

They began a friendship, the bear (called upon by Kuma) was quite forgetful, thought White Bear really didn't mind in his loneliness.

Years began to pass, White Bear's age digressing until he was only a bit bigger than the size of Cloud Child when he had run away. While He grew younger, Mother America grew sicker.

In need of healing-herbs but unable to prepare it, he sought out the white-men that desired the fur of the beaver, told them he knew where their lodges were and led them there in exchange for food and medicine.

One of these men, as far as his French could tell him, was also the spirit of his home. The man was as pale as anybody else, had hair as yellow as the fields of wheat in the west and eyes as blue as a summer's afternoon sky, he had fur on his face, which was quite strange. Everybody he'd ever met was completely hairless except for their heads.

He'd done this again and again, showing them where Brother Beaver's distant families lived and closing his eyes as they set those cruel, cold traps. He prayed again and again to The Creator, whispering his apologies as he'd hear the far off clamp, swing and slam quickly followed by a pained squealing that didn't end after so many heart-beats.

But despite his working for the things he needed and tainting his morals and soul by allowing so many innocent and beautiful creatures to be killed for the sake of their lust for clothing. Mother America was still sick and she was well on her way to joining their deity.

So many were slaughtered the days before Mother America died; she wept in her last days, she begun to feel the extent of damage she'd done to her youngest; Cloud Child. White Bear cared for his only worsening mother, feeling faithless in his Creator as days passed and more news of Tribe's Slaughter were brought to him by the spirit of France.

On her final day, when the French-soldiers came to take the children and woman away away, was the first day that White Bear, that Canada was mistaken for his brother. _**"Oh Cloud Child…"**_ She cried, holding her child's face as he tried not to sob uncontrollably. _**"Will you ever forgive me for what I've done, my beautiful Cloud Child?"**_

To give his mother peace in death, or to lie and give his brother an incentive to forgive her when she had no right to make a plea for forgiveness? He paused, closing his eyes and holding his forehead to hers, making sure she couldn't see his eyes, his eyes that were as violet as the lavender that grew on the mass, unmarked graves of his people, as he cried with her. _**"I forgive you, Mother."**_ Kuma called out in his bear-cub roar, not morning but desiring food.

Just then, the Frenchmen he'd taken hunting came through the door of the Teepee, silencing both White Bear and the white bear, seeing the corpse and the child, he took and held the crying lad away while the furry creature followed at his heels as he followed his comrades, more children were being reaped, and he sat the crying child, who seemed like he was five, on the ground and crouched so that he was more-or-less eye-level with the weeping child. "What is your name?" He asked softly.

White Bear, knowing no other name, scrawled the only words he could think of in the dirt; 'Matthew Kanata'.

Kuma lay down, at nose level with the words, he sneezed. The reaction causing the words to be blown to smithereens. "Who?" White Bear heard him squeak as he tearfully scratched the back of the bear's ears.

"Matthew Canada…" said the man, smiling as sweetly as he could. He carried the boy, who carried the cub.

Confused with the new word, White Bear repeated as best he could. "Matthew…Kanata…"

Alfred never had a good memory about his mother, because his only good memory belonged to Canada; White Bear, who was forever the good son, even while living with Brittan and France, he was always the good son.

'_Always the good son…'_ thought Cloud Child, _'Always the hero…' _clenching his hand into a fist as that damn magic of his began to work again and made him invisible, his silent guardian, his protective big brother always watching over his shoulder no matter how old they were, the good son, the only son desired of his mother, the son who was always told to look over his younger, irresponsible brother; to always look over him. _'And me…forever the villain, Alfred's a freaking pauper, Alfred has no taste, Alfred's only a bother…'_ he tried to silence the sob in his throat, tears almost falling as he whipped them away as quickly as they came. _'Alfred, Son of the White Devil…'_

Venom violet eyes watched him from across the room as he tried to bottle his emotions for later, when they wouldn't be so annoying or embarrassing, eyes that reminded Alfred so of his abusive mother who beat him for reasons that eluded the American, always calling him the Son of the White Devil even though she prized _him_, who was just as much as Son of the Whiteman, the confusion that plagued him throughout his childhood, through his rebellion and desire for independence.

Why did mother prefer White Bear over Cloud Child?

Why did France Prefer New France over Thirteen Provinces?

Why did Brittan prefer Canada over America?

Why would anybody prefer America over Canada?

Why did anybody like Alfred when there was always Matthew? Matthew who was always the good brother, always the good son.

He clenched his hands into fists as Germany called the meeting to order, Matthew dispersing his magic so that he was a little more visible so that he could get a word in. America tightened his jaw; if no one knew that there was a Canada, and then everybody would _have_ to prefer America over his elder brother…He stood on the conference table.

"Hey Germany, Nazi-Bastard! Stop being such a dictator and go screw you're Italian!" He ran as soon as everybody froze up in shock, soon everybody was on his heels.

It was better being hated then being ignored and belittled, it was better being a loud-mouthed annoyance then a quiet little brother who was somehow _still_ and annoyance despite.

He passed his barely visible brother, who leaned against the door-frame, he'd gotten there using his Magic again, he turned into a mouse and ran through the holes in the wall to get there faster than Alfred could run.

Matthew remained silent, not smirking, not smiling, but somehow America knew he was condescending, looking at him like the childish little brother he was. Tears burning at his eyes, he glared up at his older brother, his older brother who made him run to Brittan and France so that he could have Mother all to himself, his older brother who came to Brittan and France after Mother died and stole them away when he had just gotten used to being loved, to being able to speak freely without being hit for everything he'd ever said out of line.

His older brother, who was always somehow better even after Alfred gained independence first, His older brother who was praised for being so loyal after so many brave American soldiers were buried for their rights to life and liberty, for loyalty to the American way.

His older brother, prized as the Promised Land for his black Slaves…

His brother, his older brother who was always so perfect, who was always so great…and him, his little brother, forever trying to catch up even when he was first.

Finally, Alfred broke down sobbing into Matthew's coat just as the enraged countries, most of them allies and friends of Germany scoured the floor in search of him, unnoticing of the two brothers, younger clutching onto the older; his magic hiding them both.

He clutched Canada's shirt, shoulders shaking. "Forever the good son…" his heart clenched in guilt, it wasn't like Matthew wanted to be the favored child in every family that the brothers were ever in, it wasn't like he meant to be so…ideal. He defied Mother, he defied mother to save him… "Forever the good brother…" God…why was Matthew so hard to hate?

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><p>I tried to give Alfred the frantic, paranoid view of a depressed teen (as in 'why bother anymore?' kind of mentality) so mind telling me if I got it right or if I over did it?<p>

Reviews = Food, don't let this authoress starve!


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